


they called you a hurricane thundercloud

by whirlpool



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Demyx & Zexion Friendship (Kingdom Hearts), Gen, I’m so sorry lmao, M/M, Mentions of Xemnas, Piss, except that Demyx's power is slightly different, mentions of Saix - Freeform, mentions of Sora, not so much a shitpost it's more of a.... piss-take
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlpool/pseuds/whirlpool
Summary: “I’ll piss these days,” said Demyx one day, over breakfast in the kitchenette. He had finished watering the plants, and was enjoying a perfectly fried egg over a hearty piece of toast.“What?” said Axel.“I’ll miss these days,” said Demyx. “Our mission… Things won’t always be this pissful, will they?”“What?” said Axel.“Things won’t always be this peaceful,” mused Demyx.---A character study of Demyx, from rebirth as a new Nobody, to his stand-off with Sora at Hollow Bastion.
Relationships: Axel/Demyx (Kingdom Hearts), Demyx & Zexion (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	they called you a hurricane thundercloud

Some called it a curse. Something to be hidden away in the shadows of dark, stinking alleyways and shaking fingers, like the sooty drugs that overtook the sunken-faced addicts shambling through filthy slums. Something to be shielded from children’s eyes, _look away, darling, it’s not right, one day when you’re older you’ll understand why._ Something so dreadful that it woke you up at night, skin crawling and stomach sinking, gasping for air. 

* * *

The first time he did it, it wasn’t even intentional. 

Back when he was a brand-new Nobody - _god, how many years has it been now?_ \- when the wrenching pain of his Somebody’s death still ached in his bones, bitter and pervasive. The haze of rebirth enfolded his mind, tepid thoughts arising then spinning out into oblivion, perpetually sick to his stomach. 

_Yes, that must have been when it was. In the season when the leaves were starting to curl up in trees, turning brown like the color of rot and disease, martyring themselves for the sake of a biological calendar that they could not, and never would, understand…_

Back then, especially in the first few tender hours after rebirth, Demyx’s sensibilities for the Corridors of Darkness were confused and scattered, and he spent much of his early days accidentally flinging himself into strange lands and unpleasant company. The first day _it_ happened, he had found himself in the Land of Dragons, his body still weak and head pounding. 

“Goddammit,” he mumbled, pulling himself to his feet. Demyx had landed in a snowbank, and his fingers were rapidly going numb and stiff from the cold. The sunlight nearly blinded him. “Stupid fucking - ” 

He stopped short. 

Staring at him was a band of armed Huns, maybe one hundred strong, maybe even more. Half of them had their swords drawn, cruel and sharp, glinting in the mountain sun. The other half were at the ready, snarling and wary. Their breath rose in white puffs, like the smoke they left behind in the villages they rampaged.

Demyx swallowed, raised his hands in the universal sign of _I mean no harm_. “Look, this is all just a big misunderstanding, and I’m sure - ”

“Split him in two!” barked a Hun, and before Demyx could explain himself, the crowd began closing in on him. He was still helpless, and weak, and their blades were so sharp, and oh god they were getting closer oh god no please. He could smell their breath, hot and heavy and stinking of dried meats and muddy gruel. 

And as panic began to set in, he felt a familiar stirring in his bladder. _Goddammit, now is not the time to -_

And then it happened. One by one, the Huns stopped short in their charge and began to look down at themselves, confusion visible on their ugly faces. They were pissing themselves, uncontrollably, wet spots blooming on their pants and dripping down their legs. 

“Necromancer!” someone cried out.

“Fall back!” another voice urged.

The Huns began tripping over each other, shouting, scrambling to get away. 

Awestruck, Demyx raised a hand, and felt the same familiar tingle in his bladder. Fresh piss condensed onto his outstretched hand like early morning dew on blades of new grass in the summer, mystical and ethereal. More and more piss gathered through the air into his hand, the sound like a rushing waterfall. The Huns had reached a fever pitch of panic, trampling each other mercilessly in their cowardly retreat, and Demyx couldn’t help it, then - he laughed. 

* * *

The seasons changed, and leaves grew back on the trees, tender and green, blossoming with hope and possibility. Demyx matured from a bewildered, newborn Nobody to Number IX, the Melodious Nocturne, someone deserving of a rank and a title and a porcelain throne in the Round Room. A seat at the table, as it were. 

Despite his initial apprehensions, the other members of the Organization were not disgusted or ashamed of Demyx’s newfound powers. In fact, they wholeheartedly embraced his piss. (Larxene swore by it as makeup remover, and requested bottles monthly to keep at her sink.) 

Over the months, Demyx began to understand and control his capabilities more and more. If he was dehydrated, the piss he summoned was hot and dark yellow, reeking of ammonia. It was perfect for warding off enemies or heating up food. 

If he dutifully followed the suggestions on the side of his large water bottle, his piss became light and fresh and very nearly water-like. Marluxia loved it for his flowers in the back gardens, and many spring and summer mornings found Demyx up at sunrise, hose out, watering the plants. 

“I’ll piss these days,” said Demyx one day, over breakfast in the kitchenette. He had finished watering the plants, and was enjoying a perfectly fried egg over a hearty piece of toast. 

“What?” said Axel. 

“I’ll miss these days,” said Demyx. “Our mission… Things won’t always be this pissful, will they?” 

“What?” said Axel. 

“Things won’t always be this peaceful,” mused Demyx. 

* * *

Things were not, as it turned out, always so peaceful. Xemnas had his agenda, and was not afraid to make sacrifices along the way. The missions became harder, the enemies stronger and meaner. Many nights, Demyx would barely make it into his bed, muscles trembling with exhaustion. 

They started dying, one by one.

Vexen was first. Vexen, with his gleaming green eyes and fantastical ideas. Vexen, who would make ice sculptures out of Demyx’s piss in the Grey Area, replicas of themselves for shits and giggles, or of their enemies for target practice. 

Then it was Larxene. Demyx hadn’t liked her much. She was sadistic and cruel, a merciless witch with talons for nails and a razor tongue. Still, he couldn’t stop the nagging onset of survivor’s guilt. 

There were no remains. There were never any remains. 

That was the worst part, maybe, coming to terms with his own impermanence. The knowledge that one day his day of reckoning would come, and no one would care to remember him. 

Lexaeus, the easygoing brute.

Marluxia, who had been nothing but kind to him. 

Demyx and Axel began hooking up, carnal and affectionless, a desperate bid to feel something other than the gaping maw of growing dread and despondency. _Put me out, baby,_ Axel would whisper, and Demyx would oblige, pissing all over him. He never stayed the night. (Mostly because the sheets were soaked with piss.)

Then one day the announcement came that Zexion had passed. Demyx wept bitterly that day, for the friendship that he lost. No more nights would they stay up late in the Computer Room, shooting the breeze and playing video games til sunrise. No more secrets or idle gossip would they share, trading bits of tantalizing news about their coworkers, sharing common gripes and commiserations. 

No, it was all lost. And for what? 

So when Saix sent him to Hollow Bastion, to _finish off the little Keybearer once and for all, will you, Demyx?_ , there was not much left to live for. 

Sora was strong. Demyx knew he was strong because he had killed all those Heartless, and Vexen, and Larxene, and Lexaeus, and Marluxia, and… 

No, Demyx decided, this was where it ends. This is where he makes his final stand. 

So as Sora bared his Keyblade and prepared for battle, and Demyx lifted a hand and summoned his shitar (a finely crafted instrument of turds and fecal matter), and piss began rising up all around them, Demyx had never felt so peaceful in his short life. 

He felt it, briefly, then. His feelings, his _heart_. He could feel it all, the fear of death and pain and agony, the bitter ache for his lost comrades, the soft glow of affection for the ones he had come to call his friends. 

He smiled.

“ _Dance, piss, dance_!”


End file.
